


Heartsblood

by Inkstained_Dreamer



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: And He Knows It, Formenos, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Melkor is a real jerk but he's suave, Not Happy, Silmarils, minor description of violence, poor Finwë
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:53:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28579305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inkstained_Dreamer/pseuds/Inkstained_Dreamer
Summary: Melkor arrives at Formenos to carry out the final stage of his plan to take the Silmarils. With a small detour.
Relationships: Finwë & Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor, Finwë/Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor, Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor & Ungoliant, Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor & an unnamed duck
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Heartsblood

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE NOTE: there is implied sexual assault* in this!! It is not described, but IT IS THERE. So please please please please don't read this story if that isn't okay for you to hear about. Stay safe, lovelies. <3  
> *Adding on that I do not in any way condone or approve of non-consensual sex. It is completely wrong and inexcusable. Do not emulate Melkor.

Melkor bit into a pear, its golden skin breaking with a satisfying crunch. He let himself loll back on the branch, staring up at the violet sky. He  _ hated  _ waiting, especially when he was the star of the coming event, but he supposed that lying in a tree was better than cozying up to a giant spider spirit. He shuddered. Ungoliant was truly disgusting, and, from Melkor, that was saying a lot. He was looking forward to bidding her farewell--forever. Yes, he  _ had _ agreed to let her eat her fill from his hands, but, thankfully, he had a lot of practice breaking promises. Ungoliant could choke on the Trees, for all Melkor cared. He took another bite of pear, spitting a seed onto the immaculate stone pathway beneath him. Where  _ was _ that damn spider?

Melkor reached out, testing the thread of consciousness connecting him to Ungoliant, and sighed. Ugh. He would have to talk to her. He sighed in annoyance. 

_ Can’t you hurry up a bit? I’ve been waiting for you for ages. _

Ungoliants creaking, rattling presence filled his mind.  _ Listen here, sonny. I didn’t sign on to your little revenge quest just to get bossed around by a puny reject Vala like yourself. Your schedule will have to change, because I’m doing this my way.  _

Melkor threw his pear into a cypress tree, letting it splatter over the trunk, leaving behind a dripping, pulpy mess. Every time he spoke to Ungoliant, it reminded him just how much he despised the spider-woman. Maybe he’d kill her when all this was over. That would be a lovely end to a day he still hoped would be perfect. 

_ Don’t ignore me, kiddo, _ Ungoliant hissed in his mind. 

Melkor gritted his teeth.  _ What, you want to chat? Maybe sit down and have teacakes? Also, why am I ‘kiddo’ now? I’m literally older than time itself.  _

Ungoliant snickered, a dry, papery sound.  _ I’ve been around a whole lot longer than you, Mellie. I crawled from the cold darkness of the swirling Abyss before you even squeaked out your first pathetic note in Eru’s sweet little choir. Don’t get too big for your britches, boyo.  _

Melkor exhaled slowly, imagining locking his rage in a box and throwing it into the sea. There would be time to open it later.. He’d play nice with Ungoliant and it would pay off in the end.

He pasted a smile over his frustration.  _ All right, all right, whatever. Take your time. _

_ I wasn’t asking for your permission, sonny, _ Ungoliant snapped.  _ You do your thing and I’ll do mine. That was our agreement. Now hush up and let me focus.  _

Melkor kicked his feet against the branch, letting leaves rain down around him, and glared at Tirion, sparkling in the distance like one of Varda’s stars fallen to earth. He could faintly hear the festival music, flutes and mandolins, bells and drums, drifting on the wind like faraway birdsong. He smirked. The elves, busy dancing and braiding flowers into their hair, had no idea what was coming at them. Even if Ungoliant was slower than a three-legged tortoise, nothing could dampen Melkor’s coming triumph. 

He folded his arms under his head, watching the pink-tinged clouds through the tree branches, and thought about his sister, Yavanna. They had gotten along, ages and ages ago. She had some of his passion for creation, though he put it to better use. She had had real possibility, despite her tendency for putting flowers in Melkor’s hair. He scoffed bitterly, remembering how quickly her love had turned to resentment and disgust. Right in keeping with everyone else, she had made the ridiculous choice to turn her back on him and hide with her daisies. 

Well. Her loss. He stretched and smiled, thinking of her precious Trees, so soon to be nothing more than blackened stumps. He hoped he’d have time to see her before he left Valinor behind him forever. It would be oh-so-satisfying to watch her snivel and cry over the destruction of her proudest work. Maybe there’d be time after Formenos. . .?

He snarled impatiently. There would’ve been plenty of time to spare if he hadn’t had to spend what felt like years convincing Ungoliant to haul her crusty thorax up from the sticky depths of wherever it was she lived, and put her eight legs to good use. He wished he could’ve done this alone, or even with his favorite little epitome of organization, Mairon. Everything would’ve been so much more efficient. But Mairon couldn’t leave the forges and Melkor knew he would never be able to get close to the Trees, not since the incident with the lamps. So here he was, waiting in a tree while Ungoliant took her sweet time getting in place. 

Melkor sighed and swung himself down from his branch, landing lightly by the pond. He knelt on its stone rim, holding his hand out towards the birds floating on the water.

“Hey,” he called to them in a lilting singsong. “C’mere.”

They stared at him with round, shining eyes. One small duckling paddled closer. Melkor clucked his tongue at it. 

“Come on, little one. I’m bored. We can play.”

The duckling hopped onto the stone beside him. Melkor stroked its damp back, the downy feathers soft under his fingers. It quacked and snuggled against his knee. Melkor smiled. He liked small things. They had so much possibility. But they were so  _ helpless _ .

He lifted the duckling, raising it until he could stare directly into its placid eyes. His mouth quirked in a crooked smile.

“I’m going to set you free,” he whispered to the duck. “So you can protect yourself, okay?”

The duck tilted its head as Melkor closed his eyes and hummed a soft, thrumming note. He felt the sparkling, wild energy surge up through his palms, pressing against the skin he had built for himself. He wanted to melt into it, to let the energy of creation fill him and become him. But not now. He had something to do. With an effort, he pushed the energy away and opened his eyes.

A few feathers drifted around the small snake coiled calmly in his palm. Its back was patterned with diamonds, mottled brown and gold. An adder. Lovely. 

It opened its pink mouth, flicking out a ribbon-like tongue and showing glinting fangs. Melkor smiled and patted its head, then lowered it to the ground and watched it slither away. It would be safe now. It was much stronger than before.

He stood up and stretched, watching the sky. Ungoliant should be almost there, unless she’d stopped for a snack break. Oh yes. He was  _ really _ looking forward to tearing her into tiny pieces and letting the wind blow her away. 

He felt it the moment it happened, a shiver beneath the soles of his feet. A sick lurching, as if the heart of the world had skipped a beat. Melkor grinned and bounced on his toes, listening.

As darkness spilled across the sky like upended ink, he could faintly hear the panicked shrieks of the celebrating elves in Tirion. Melkor had to laugh, imagining their pathetic fear. One by one, the stars disappeared, Varda’s greatest creations, hidden behind the curtain of eternal night. The flowers around Melkor wilted and fell to the ground. The ground trembled again, and Melkor launched himself into the air, his arms transforming to black-featherd wings, his nose and mouth melting into a beak. He soared into the dark sky as a hawk, and allowed himself one lazy loop of victory above Tirion before he began winging his way towards Formenos. Finally, he could start the piece of the plan that promised to be the best. If hawks could smile, Melkor would’ve been grinning. He let out a shrill cry of exultation as he swooped lower, skimming the tops of trees. 

It didn’t take long for him to spot the lights of Formenos glinting gold in the distance. He swooped over the buildings. Barely any guards; they would all be in Tirion for the festivities. Melkor folded his wings and shot straight downwards, reveling in the whistling wind. He pulled himself up from his dive moments before he hit the ground and came to rest before the elaborate gates of the fortress.

With an inward sigh, he pushed away the burning desire to let the pure, raw energy of creation have its way, changing his form to air, to stone, to a heartbeat, to the pure scent of life, and slipped back into his elven form. He allowed himself the luxury of claws and fangs, though. He thought he deserved a treat after all that time spent waiting on Ungoliant. And they could only enhance the plan. 

He placed a hand on the gate, tensed through metal-nature, and let the doors fall inwards, the screaming crash echoing through the silence. Ah. He gave his head a little shake, settling his long, dark hair, and stepped into the courtyard. 

The first guard that saw him was dead before he could cry out. Melkor licked the warm blood from his claws, letting the metallic, sweet flavor fill his mouth, savoring it. Life was so precious, whether you were the giver or the taker. 

He continued on, his steps making no sound. He took care to place the bodies of those he encountered where they would be easily visible. He wanted to leave quite the display for little Fëanáro when he showed up. 

Leisurely, Melkor made his way into the inner passages and chambers of the fortress. Tapestries hung on the walls, behind ornate carved tables holding statues and paintings. Light gleamed on polished stone and wood. Rich carpets muffled any slight sounds Melkor might make. 

Melkor paused, listening. All the chambers he’d passed were deserted, but Finwë was here  _ somewhere _ . Melkor knelt on the floor, pressing his ear against the rug.

Dimly, he heard a snatch of song; a lullaby by the sound of it. He grinned as he rose, licking his lips, and followed the strains of melody down a curving staircase, through a corridor and past approximately twenty-six doors. At the twenty-seventh, he stopped. Light shone from under the crack, and he could clearly hear the sweet, husky voice of the singer.

Melkor leaned against the wall for a moment, enjoying the song. It was an old lullaby, and one he knew. 

_ High above, the moon does shine, _

_ And paints the sea-foam silver. _

_ Beautiful Tilion sails the skies, _

_ With his bright bow and quiver. _

_ Sleep, my child, close your eyes, _

_ Let your mind be tranquil. _

_ Sleep, my darling, sleep, my love, _

_ Tilion watches o’er you from above.  _

Melkor glared as the voice of the singer died away. A beautiful song, pure and perfect, just how the elves liked things. Just what Melkor wasn’t. You wouldn’t find any lullabies about him. Well, he’d show them all. 

He heard murmured “I-love-yous” from behind the door and watched as the light flickered out. Slowly, the door creaked open. Melkor smiled, right into the eyes of his quarry, who stared back, his eyes widening in surprise and horror. Quickly, he closed the door behind him and stood in front of it, his arms outspread.

“Don’t take another  _ step _ ,” he hissed, his rich voice so similar to his son’s. 

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Melkor replied, flicking imaginary dust from his sleeve. “I don’t know who’s in there, and, frankly, I don’t care. I’m not here for them.”

Finwë didn’t step away from the door. “Who are you here for then, Lord Melkor?” he asked, keeping his voice steady with enormous effort. 

Melkor smiled wider. “I think you know, High King,” he said sweetly

Melkor saw the soft bulb of Finwë’s throat bob as he swallowed. He slowly stepped away from the door.

“You wish to kill me,” he said, eyes fixed on Melkor’s claws.

“Oh, eventually,” Melkor said carelessly. “But first we can talk a bit. Come. Walk with me.”

“What do you want?” Finwë asked.

“Didn’t you hear me, your majesty? I want you to walk with me.”

Finwë dropped his hands and took a few steps forward. Melkor, still grinning, put a hand on his shoulder and firmly guided him down the hallway. 

“Show me to your rooms,” he said as they mounted the stairs.

“I’d rather not.”

“It wasn’t a request, High King. You will show me to your rooms.”

Finwë’s jaw was working, but he only nodded and led Melkor down more twisting corridors and into a set of chambers decorated all in blue and white. Messy drawings, obviously gifts from the younger members of his family, were hung on the walls. Melkor patted the head of a sculpture that was either Varda or a tamarin, it wasn’t clear which, and seated himself in a chair beside Finwë’s bed, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back. Finwë remained standing, busying himself with pouring wine into two goblets. 

Melkor silently waited for him to finish, admiring the way the light played on his unbound dark hair and burnished his tawny skin. Perhaps he wasn’t as beautiful as Fëanáro, but he wasn’t far behind. 

Looking over his shoulder, Finwë met Melkor’s gaze and couldn’t suppress a shudder. Melkor only smiled.

“Don’t trouble yourself any further, High King. Come and sit.”

With a forced smile, Finwë carried the two carved goblets across the room and offered one to Melkor, careful not to let their hands touch. He seated himself on the edge of the bed with his hands cupped around his own cup.

“What did you wish to talk about with me, Lord Melkor?” he asked his lap.

“Oh, Finwë. Let’s do away with petty titles, shall we? I’m here to--potentially--strike a bargain.”

Finwë pressed his lips together, still staring into his wine. “The answer is no.”

Melkor languidly sipped his wine. It was quite a good vintage, and why shouldn’t he enjoy himself?“Goodness me, so touchy. You haven’t even heard what I have to say.”

Finwë finally raised his eyes, and Melkor saw a flicker of rage there. Good. That would only make things more fun. 

“I don’t need to hear your offer. I am not interested. But somehow I think you’re going to say it anyways.”

Melkor laughed and flicked a finger against Finwë’s chin. “Clever boy. Now, on to business. What I want on the most basic level are the Silmarils, as you probably have already guessed. But what I am truly interested in is their maker.”

Finwë drew back, his eyes flashing. “I don’t think I understand.”

Melkor licked wine from his lips and rose from his chair. “Let me make it clearer for you, then: I want your son.”

“Which one? I have multiple sons,” Finwë said coldly. “And don’t forget my daughters. They are just as accomplished, and have a good deal more common sense, to boot.”

Melkor threw back his head and laughed. “Clever  _ and _ witty! I understand why Indis swooped in after that  _ unfortunate  _ business with Míriel.”

Finwë stood up, his fists clenched. “Don’t you  _ dare _ say her name. You don’t deserve to.”

Melkor grabbed the shoulders of the smaller elf and shoved him back down onto the bed. “Save your righteous anger for someone who cares.” He exhaled, and the smile returned to his face. “Now, about Fëanáro--as his father, you must have some say with him. And I’m  _ sure _ you could convince him to take his skills elsewhere. Say, to me. Do this, prove your loyalty to me by this gift, and I will spare your life and leave your family in peace.”

Finwë stared directly into Melkor’s glittering eyes for the first time since he’d seen him. And he laughed. “My son is his own person. I could no more influence him than a grain of sand could influence a boulder. So don’t talk about me  _ giving _ him to anyone. And my answer is still no. If you want anything from me, you’ll have to take it yourself.”

Melkor leaned down, his shadow covering Finwë. “How very bold,” he said icily. 

“I’m not afraid of you,” Finwë said, in a voice that made it quite clear that he was, in fact, afraid. “And you can do nothing to me.”

“Nothing? Really?” Melkor purred, sitting down beside Finwë. “I doubt it.”

Finwë looked over at him scornfully. “Do your worst.”

“My pleasure,” Melkor said, and, leaning over, gently pressed his windburned lips to Finwë’s. 

With a stifled cry, Finwë jerked away, disgust written in bold letters on his face, his hands flying up to ward off any further attempts on the part of his companion.

“Your mouth is sweet,” Melkor said quite calmly.

“ _ Eru _ ,” Finwë swore hoarsely. Melkor only smiled.

“I could do that again,” he said, trailing his hand down the rich embroidery of Finwë’s robes, feeling him trembling. “I could even do more. You couldn’t stop me, could you? Should we see?” he continued, his hand on Finwë’s thigh. 

“Don’t,” Finwë hissed. “Please don’t.”

Melkor pouted theatrically. “What? Scared you’ll like it? Or aren’t you into men anymore? You were pretty enthusiastic with Elwë, if I recall correctly.”

Finwë lowered his hands from his face, a single tear trickling down his cheek. “Please don’t do this.  _ Please.  _ I’d rather it if you just killed me.”

Melkor leaned closer. “Oh, I know,” he whispered in Finwë’s ear. “Which is why I’m not going to just kill you. I don’t make idle threats, High King Finwë. And since I can’t have your son. . .well, I guess I’ll have to settle for something different.”

~ ~ ~

Melkor hummed to himself as he dragged Finwë’s unmoving body back through the outer courtyard. He’d have to use this tactic more often. It had been a lovely end to the day, watching Finwë struggle and cry and kick and bite. He’d been almost sorry when he’d slashed his claws into the elf’s chest for the final time and watched him go limp, the light in his dark eyes dying.

Carelessly, Melkor dropped his burden at the broken gate, looking down at the bloody mess that had been the High King of the Noldor. He’d taken care to preserve Finwë’s face--he wanted Fëanáro to recognize him, after all--and anyways, it would be a shame to destroy something that lovely with brute force. But he hadn’t put his robes back on. It was a nice touch, he thought. It would make the scene even more horrible when the elves came running from Tirion. 

Melkor stretched, feeling the wind stroke his exposed torso. It would’ve been fun to take Finwë away with him and see how long he’d last in Utumno, to break him from the inside out, but some sacrifices had to be made, as Mairon was always reminding him. Well. It was all right. He’d gotten what he wanted, even if it was burning away the skin of his left hand. 

Melkor grinned up at the dark sky and gave Finwë’s mangled form a graceful bow.

“Thank you ever so much for your contribution, your majesty. I’ll remember you fondly when I watch your sons die.”

And (for the moment) darkness reigned. 

  
  



End file.
